


Valley of the Dolls

by hannigramcracker



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Issues, Gender Non-conforming Hannibal, Genderfluid, Genderfluid Character, Happy Ending, I promise, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Phone Sex, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Transgender, Violence, gnc Hannibal, possibly I think
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 01:59:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2211510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannigramcracker/pseuds/hannigramcracker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal has a secret that no one knows. She is a piece of him that is kept completely hidden from the outside world. That is, until she meets Will and the walls separating Hannibal's lives begin to crumble down around him. </p>
<p>*not canon Mischa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This basically started as a lot of crying and screaming between Madni and I on our way back from New Jersey. She suggested gnc Hannibal calling the feminine presenting self Mischa. And it evolved into this. 
> 
> I plan to post updates at least once a week. 
> 
> Title from Marina and the Diamond's "Valley of the Dolls"

_"In the valley of the dolls we sleep. I've got a hole inside of me. Living with identities that do not belong to me." - Valley of the Dolls, Marina and the Diamonds._

 

Hannibal closed and locked the door behind him, relishing the sound of the latch clicking over even if he knew no one else was in his home with him. Locking the door felt safe, good. Like he could keep this room, this part of him, inside and away from everything else. Hannibal was very good at sectioning off pieces of his life and preventing them from touching each other, but this piece of him hurt to hide.

Shades and pieces of her hung in the back of Hannibal’s mind every waking moment. Every second he was around someone who didn’t know, she seemed to scream in his ear even louder than before. Her soft scent hung in the air and snagged on each of his fingers when he tried to move them. Her lipstick stained his teeth and he couldn’t get her polish off his nails, couldn’t get her blush off his cheeks. Long blonde hairs clung to his suits. She spoke in gasps and sighs that only he could hear in a voice that was soft and feminine like his could never be. She bled out and stained him crimson more than the piece of him hidden in the basement ever did.

She would not, and could not, leave him alone. And he did not want her to.

He flicked on the light next to the door and blinked as the soft bulbs flooded the room. Still holding the doorknob in his loosening fist, he let his eyes wander the modestly sized room, taking in everything that he had collected over the years. The walls were a pale cream color, offset by the muted pink moldings that lined the hardwood floor. An antique vanity with a rounded mirror was the centerpiece of the room, overflowing with bottles of perfumes and foundations all stacked neatly on top of lace doilies. Each of the drawers were organized impeccably, Hannibal would have it no other way, lipsticks and blushes and shadows arranged neatly by color.

Slowly, carefully, he removed his suit jacket and hung it neatly on the hook inside the small closet that was near the door. He unbuttoned each of the buttons on his shirt with as much care as he could before hanging it up as well. Next came him pants, and boxers, which were also meticulously hung. Hannibal took a moment and looked himself over in the long mirror that hung on the back of the door, a sharpened edge of hate creeping into his gaze. He tilted his chin back, baring his teeth slightly, before snatching up a light chiffon silk dressing gown that was light pink at the top and faded into a darker shade at the bottom. He bunched up the fabric of a sleeve and pressed it against his nose and mouth, inhaling for a short moment before throwing it around his shoulders and relaxing as it caressed his skin. He folded it over himself and knotted the braided rope around the middle, closing his eyes. When he opened them again, he looked into the mirror and some of the hate ebbed.

Hands in the limp tendrils of his hair, he sighed before turning and walking deeper into the room. He ran his hands over each and every dress lining the racks installed in the back wall. He took handfuls of ruffles, tulle, and lace as he walked, submerging himself completely. He wrapped his fingers in a knot of pearls that hung on a hook near another mirror and memorized the way the beads tumbled in the palm of his hand. He was completely at peace in this room, and he hated having to go through most of his days without it. He hated locking it all away, even if he knew he had to.

But none of that mattered now. Tonight, he was safely tucked away, encased in these walls and everything that he was and that he loved. He spread his hands over the lace on the surface of the vanity, letting his fingers get looped and tangled in the edges. He picked up a bottle of perfume, one that was clearly obscenely expensive, and squeezed the pump into the air, leaning into the cloud of scent. Delicate and understated, yet feminine and beautiful all the same. Hannibal let his eyes fall closed again before opening them and letting them fall on the most important piece in the room with him.

A small, gorgeous porcelain doll stared up from her perch on the vanity. She smiled, a tame and timid smile, one that Hannibal longed to emulate. Blonde curls cascaded from her head and fell delicately to her shoulders. The tiny bows in her hair matched the satin dress she wore in a wonderful shade of pink. A shade that Hannibal wished his skin tone complimented, but he knew he needed to wear things that were darker. She was _everything_. He wanted to look just like this little doll, her perfect stature, perfect hair, perfect makeup, in a dress that hung perfectly on her frame and looked just the way it was meant to.

He just wanted to be perfect.

Hannibal reached a hand down and traced the contour of the doll’s cheek with the pad of his pinky. He hummed to himself, baring his teeth in a smile. He scooped up a bottle of foundation and began applying it to his face, leaning in to inspect the pores on his cheekbones to be sure he was contouring correctly. Powdering liberally, he covered any imperfections that dared to blemish his skin. Next came the blush, only a light dusting. There was no reason to look garish. A bit of mascara on both the top and bottom lashes, painstakingly and perfectly applied. Hannibal was nothing if not a perfectionist.

He rose from the table, letting the dressing gown fan out in a flourish before walking back to the racks and selecting a pale yellow dress with a darling floral print. He held it out at arm’s length, admiring it and nodding in miniscule approval. Then he held it against himself and looked himself up and down in the mirror before slipping out of the dressing gown and letting the flowy silk pool around his feet. He stepped into the dress and pulled it up onto his shoulders, loving the way it cinched around his hips. He struggled a bit to zip the back up, but eventually got it. He was used to having to do up the backs of his own dresses by now. There was no one he could trust enough to ask for help. Anyone who had known in the past was gone now, and Hannibal liked it that way. There was no way he could risk this secret getting out. He honestly was not sure what secret would be more detrimental to his career - this, or that of the Ripper.

Putting thoughts of his other persona out of his mind and straightening the straps of the dress on his shoulders, he walked back across the room to the vanity again, letting his hips swish and sway under the fabric on the way. A small smile perked the corners of his lips as he ran a comb through his hair, pinning back the soft tendrils that almost fell past his eyes - nearly long enough to be curled and styled on their own, but not quite. Maybe someday soon he would try his curling iron again, but tonight he was on a mission. Loose ends all pinned up and back, he reached into a drawer and pulled out a tan colored wig cap. With practiced fingers, he secured the piece of fabric to his head, making sure it was tugged on perfectly and flat. Then, spreading his fingers and taking it gingerly in his hands, he removed a full blonde wig that was brushed and curled to perfection from a bust that sat on another part of the vanity. The wig fit on his head perfectly, the blonde tresses cascading gently down his shoulders and back. He ran his fingers through the bangs, making them lay correctly against his forehead.

He took a moment, leaned back and looked at himself in the mirror. He was nearly unrecognizable. He was beautiful. It was always this part in getting ready that he felt tears welling up in his eyes at just how  _perfect_  he looked. Tilting his head back, he blinked the tears away. He could not, _would not_  ruin the eye make up he had spend so much time on. Flipping his hair over one shoulder, he leaned back into the mirror after selecting the perfect shade of red lipstick to match the flowers in the dress.

He leaned in close, nose almost touching the glass, and outlined the shape of his lips perfectly. He puckered them for a moment in a mock kiss before dabbing them on a piece of tissue. His lips left the perfect outline on the white square. He looked at the lipstick tube in his hand and his reflection in the mirror. Without really thinking, he lifted the lipstick to the mirror and drew a large “M” on the reflective surface.

“M for Mischa…”

He was no longer Hannibal, no longer  _he_. At night, during these nights, Hannibal morphed into someone he loved dearly, into someone perfect, into Mischa.

And when Mischa left the house, she left Hannibal’s well tailored person suit hanging in the closet at home. He was not a part of her at all. Hannibal was subpar at best, Mischa was absolute art.

She shut the door behind her and got into the sleek black Mercedes that was specifically for her use only. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mischa goes out...and sees a familiar face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is earlier than I originally thought, but I had this whole chapter written and wanted to get it out before the long weekend. The chapter after this will probably take a little longer as I'm going away for a few days, and it isn't fully written yet.

_"Women and men, we are the same. But love will always be a game." - Power and Control, Marina and the Diamonds._

 

Mischa sauntered into a bar on the main street of downtown Baltimore. This wasn’t a place she usually went, but tonight she found she didn’t really care. She wanted to go out, she wanted to show off her perfection. Swaying her hips just so, she walked up to the bar with confidence. She felt at least six pairs of eyes on her and the way that the pleats of her skirt hung around her thighs. She quirked her red lips and ordered a glass of wine, wondering how many of these men would be clamouring to buy her drinks by the end of the night.

She had brought enough money to fund herself, but it was always nice watching these huge men blunder over themselves, clearly drunk, and staring at her chest. Mischa smiled to herself. If only they knew.

But they didn’t, and that was the point. Mischa wanted the attention of these men without having to worry about going home with any of them, even if she would have liked to once or twice. In all honesty, it thrilled her to turn down each of them. She knew she could take care of herself. She was no stranger to one or two following her out to her car. They had been promptly introduced to the switchblade in her purse. She was no one’s property but her own, would not be confined to anyone else’s expectations. Not when she was Mischa. She would not be taken advantage of.

She sat down on one of the bar stools and gathered her purse into her lap before crossing one leg over the other, waiting for her wine to be served to her. She had ordered an expensive vintage, of course, and the tender had had to run into the back to get the bottle. Mischa felt someone settle in next to her, but kept her eyes forward, watching the well-dressed bartender arrate and pour her wine. She would tip him well for putting so much effort into her service. She could sense whoever was sitting next to her looking at her tentatively. She knew their gaze was locked on her cheekbone, but she still paid attention only to the man handing her her drink. She took it with a flash of her teeth and a lowered gaze, bashfully grateful.

She took a sip, savoring each of the flavors in the intricate bouquet - if Hannibal had taught her anything, it was how to appreciate a good wine. She could feel the man next to her shifting. She sniffed the air slightly, and was filled with the smell of cheap whiskey over the top of something vaguely familiar. Something that smelled like a scent she had encountered many, many times before now…

“Sweetheart, this bar is the last place where I thought I would see someone like you.”

Mischa had to fight to keep her eyes from rolling. If this wasn’t the hundredth time she had heard that line… She turned to look her suitor in the eye, a retort ready, and almost choked on the sip of wine she had been swallowing.

Her gaze travelled up the distinct profile: stubble, strong jawline. thickly rimmed glasses, eyes barely containing a storm, all beneath a mop of delectably unruly curls. She knew this man, and this man knew her.

No, no. _Hannibal_ knew this man, and this man knew Hannibal. Mischa knew nothing about him, and likewise. She took a deep breath and another sip of wine to steady herself before speaking. She would need to be careful. She didn’t want to push him away like she pushed all the others.

“And what makes you say that?”

“Well, this place is kind of dingy for a pretty little thing like you.” Mischa could hear the slur in Will’s words, and she knew he was drunk.

“A pretty thing like me?” She echoed, wanting to hear the words tumble from his lips once more. “What’s that supposed to mean? I can’t go to the bar and drink with the men?”

“Well, of course you can, but that just makes you stand out even more amongst all of them. You’re beautiful.”

“Aren’t you even going to ask my name?”

“I was hoping you would tell me without me having to ask. I’m Will. Will Graham.”

“Well, hello Will.” Mischa let the words form delicately. “My name is Mischa Lawson.”

“Mischa.”

She shivered as Will’s voice caressed her name. Something lit up along her spine and she wanted nothing more in that moment than for Will to take her home. She wanted with such an intensity that it almost hurt to know there was no way to fulfill her fantasy. She twirled the simple silver bracelet she wore on her left wrist for a moment, relishing the way the cool steel felt kissing the inside of her wrist.

She could never _really_  go home with anyone, lest they find out her secret. And if they found out her secret, well. Then she would have to kill them, and that was never what she wanted for Will.

At least not like this.

“What a pretty name.”

Mischa knew Will was looking at her, and she felt herself glowing under the attention. She thrived on attention from anyone, that much was true, but she never once imagined getting it from Will. She never would have thought…

“Thank you.” She says quietly, sipping on her wine again, careful not to let any lipstick smudge on the rim of the glass.

“I’ve never seen you around here before, and I come here kind of often. Are you visiting? Just passing through?”

Mischa opened her mouth, not entirely sure what to say, when the bartender mercifully took notice of Will and asked him what he wanted to drink. She hoped to be able to sway the conversation away from where she lived, but after Will gave his order he looked at her expectantly and she knew she had to speak.

“I’m new around here. I just moved in a few weeks ago.” Another lie through her teeth. She was well accustomed to them. She wore them all with confidence, bright red like her lipstick.

“Well, maybe I could show you around a bit sometime, doll.”

Mischa’s breath caught at the nickname Will had tacked on to the end of his sentence. Images of the doll she kept safely in the room in her house danced before her eyes. She took another sip of her wine before answering in a soft, small voice. “I would like that.”

“You’re not just sayin’ that, are ya, doll?” Will smirked, and Mischa had to close her eyes as the slight twang of his accent crept into his words.

“I’m not. I would very much like it.”

Will’s smile tugged at Mischa’s heart strings. What was she doing? She felt Hannibal deep down, goading her on. This was exactly what he wanted, what _she_  wanted. Hannibal stung deep within her chest, she was thinking his thoughts for a sharp moment. _He never wanted me like he wants you._

Mischa downed the last of her wine as Will finally got his drinks. She was about to order another, when Will slid one of the shot glasses in front of him across the bar to her. “I got you a drink, I hope you don’t mind. I know it’s not whatever fancy vintage that you were just drinking. My wallet wouldn’t support that.”

Mischa smiled, crooked and yet tight lipped. She didn’t show her teeth if she could help it. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I couldn’t just sit here next to such a beautiful lady and not buy her a drink. What kind of gentleman would that make me?”

Mischa found herself giggling at Will’s words and the slight slur in them. She found herself wondering what his lips would taste like beneath all the whiskey he had been drinking, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up as she imagined his hands in her hair.

“Certainly not the kind I am interested in.” She said before picking up the small, sweating glass and knocking back the cheap whiskey in one gulp, only barely managing not to wince.

“I can’t have that then. Bartender, another round please!” Will spoke loudly, and Mischa laughed again. It was so easy to laugh with him. She was getting ahead of herself, and she knew it, but she could hardly help herself. Everything was falling into place, and she was so happy to be basking in the doting attention Will was showing her.

Another round of shots down, and Mischa couldn’t keep the smile off her face. She wasn’t sure if it was the affects of the alcohol, or the present company. She knew it was getting late, that she should head home, but she had never been so entertained by small talk in her life. She wanted to get Will talking about his dogs, just to see the light that reached into his eyes when he did, but she hoped she would have plenty of other chances to do so.

“I really would love to take you out to dinner sometime. I’m not just drunk and flirting, you know.”

“Well, I would hope not.” Mischa reached out for a napkin on the other side of the bar and dug in her purse for a pen. Her fingertips brushed the cool handle of her switchblade and she smiled. She wouldn’t be needing that tonight. She knew Will would keep her safe if it came to that. Quickly, she wrote her number on the napkin and pressed her lips to the bottom, leaving a red stain. Cliche, she knew, but she couldn’t resist.

Will smiled and tucked the napkin into his pocket. “I’ll call you tomorrow, then. How about I walk you out to your car? I have to keep up my gentlemanly appearance. I don’t want you to realize I’m not up to your standards too soon.”

Will hopped down from his stool and held his hand out for Mischa to take as she got off the chair herself. She did, and her skin buzzed with electricity when their hands touched. Will’s hands were soft and warm, a bit calloused around the thumbs, and she could almost feel the way he held his gun in the crevices of his fingers. She didn’t let go once she was off the chair and let him lead her out of the bar.

Once at her car, she unlocked the door and Will opened it for her, but before she got in, she leaned forward and planted a timid kiss on his cheek. She knew she would have to let Will know it was okay, he was never one to initiate anything for fear of overstepping boundaries. She needed him to know that those boundaries were going to be easily attainable with her. Hurdles easily approached and jumped over.

Exactly as she had expected, Will shifted his head and brushed his lips with hers for a long moment. Mischa melted into the kiss, his lips were soft and perfectly shaped and tasted  _just right_  like whiskey. When they parted, Will kissed her once on the tip of the nose and Mischa laughed, a full blossoming sound, into the night air. “Have a good night. Will. I’ll be waiting for your call.”

Mischa drove home in a state of absolute bliss. She felt like a teenager, the tip of her nose and cheeks feeling hot from where Will’s stubble was pressed against them. She smiled aimlessly into the darkness.

It wasn’t until she got home and through the threshold of the doorway that the terrible dark feelings of anxiety and self doubt started to creep in and crack her perfectly placed makeup.

Maybe it was the alcohol that still buzzed through her system, singing in her veins, but Mischa’s resolve crumbled the moment she shut the door behind her. It was all she could do not to slide down the back of the door and curl in on herself.

_What was she doing?_

She could not pursue Will romantically, not like this, not when he didn’t know. Not when there was no way she could tell him. But the thought of cutting things off before they even began hurt her more than the thought of letting things continue. She could figure something out. She _would_  figure something out.

She forced herself to walk up the stairs that led to her room and took her dress off carefully once inside. She breathed a sigh of relief, gently rubbing at the marks in her skin where the dress had hung snugly to her figure. She sat on a plush stool in front of the mirror in only her bra and panties, fingers playing with the ends of her hair. She liked Will. She knew she did. Everything in both of her lives pointed to it. This was what she had always wanted.

But Hannibal’s voice from deep inside would not relent. She listened to him speak in condescending tones, telling her that Will would not stay with her if he knew the truth. That Will may be unstable, but he was not desperate enough for such a trainwreck. That he would be nothing short of disgusted.

“He’ll be disgusted in _you_ , too.” Mischa spat at no one, her tongue still tasting like the whiskey Will had bought her.

She wrenched a drawer in front of her open, yanking out a small purple leather bound notebook with a pen wedged between the pages. This was the only way to make Hannibal silent on nights when his voice plagued her. She knew what she had to do.

She opened to the next blank page and began to scribble her thoughts, angrily and fervently yet with handwriting still luxurious as ever.

_I hate you. I hate your smug looks and glances. I hate the way your voice sounds, so low and masculine all the time. I hate the sparkle in your eyes. That sparkle is mine. It belongs to me. I hate your suits and the way you walk in them. You’ll never be as pretty as me. Your feet are too big, your shoulders too broad. Everywhere you go, you bring destruction. You want everyone to like you, but you are a monster. How can anyone like you when they don’t know the real you? They don’t know who you actually are, and no one but me ever will. And I loathe you for it._

Mischa stared down at the book in front of her. Every page in it was filled with much the same. Hatred and loathing and fear bound together in the seams of it’s pages. Mischa hated with such an intensity, and tried to bottle it up, but it swallowed her whole unless she let it out. The days living in Hannibal’s skin itched and clawed away at her resolve. Having no other outlets, she used the diary to alleviate as much of it as she could. It wasn’t like she had anyone to talk to about it. She could go to therapy, sure, but therapists made the worst patients and she knew she wouldn’t be able to bring herself to tell anyone outside of this room.

Suddenly sapped completely of all energy, Mischa sighed a deep steadying breath and placed her diary back in the drawer before carefully and painstakingly removed her makeup. Still feeling considerably drunk, she slid off her bra and wrapped a different dressing gown around her shoulders. This one was light pink and see through, with black lace cut outs in the shoulders. It was her favorite one, and wearing it always brought her a small amount of comfort. Too exhausted to make it all the way to the bedroom (besides, that’s where _he_  slept), she gingerly picked up the doll from the vanity and crossed the room to the luxurious ottoman that sat snug between the wall and a window. She quickly fell asleep, the doll delicately wrapped up in her arms and tucked beneath her chin, the taste of Will’s lips mixing pleasantly with the still lingering taste of the whiskey on her tongue.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, if there are any tags that anyone sees should be added, don't hesitate to tell me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal gets introspective and goes to the tailor.   
> Mischa gets a phone call.

_"Sometimes, I ignore you so I feel in control. But really, I adore you, and I can't leave you alone." - Starring Role, Marina and the Diamonds_

 

Waking the next morning was bittersweet, as it often was. Opening her eyes as Mischa, but getting ready and dressed as Hannibal. The thought stung her worse than a blade held to her neck. His name alone hissed like a foul word inside her head.

Standing up slowly, righting the robe around her, she placed the doll gently back on the vanity, taking a moment to look longingly at her. She ran a hand through her hair as she exited the room, walking down the hallway to the bathroom, padding along the soft carpet in her bare feet. She watched her pink painted toe nails tread along the floor. She walked into the bathroom and leaned into the shower to turn on the faucet. As steam began to fill the room, Mischa looked in the mirror before it fogged up entirely.

A sneer shadowed over her features. Her makeup was gone, her hair hung unkept, a bit of stubble was beginning to show on her chin. Hannibal was coming back through and she could do nothing to stop him. She knew that once it hit morning, her body belonged to him. The daylight was his. The night was her woman, and she had to wait to be set free. Slowly, regretfully, she shed her shiny pink robe and slid out of her panties. Standing, completely naked, she slid the silver bracelet off of her wrist as well. She let the tiny pieces of fabric sit on the ground and stay there while she stepped into the shower.

The water cascaded over her back, washing every last piece of her away. She no longer smelled the same, the last of her makeup circled around the drain and was gone. She washed away all of her hard work from the night only to be forced to become _him_  again. _Hannibal_.

Hannibal leaned his head back into the spray, separating strands of his hair with his fingers. He hated this part of the morning, every single day. It always made him feel so small; almost like he could curl up and fall right down the drain with the water and soap. Naked, completely laid bare and vulnerable, there was nowhere to hide from himself in the small cubicle. He was left completely by himself and the thoughts torrented down on him as relentlessly as the water did, but often they were less warm.

He was left out in the cold, left tucked away from everyone else in a space that was supposed to be safe, but a place that turned out to be that of the most destruction he had ever witnessed, not at his own hands. He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose as the memories of his sister flooded him. She was tiny - small and beautiful, light and flowing, pink and gold and purple - everything he was not. He loved her. But it was only looking back now that he clearly saw the sparks and pangs of jealousy he felt toward her. His outbursts had been written off as adjusting to no longer being the only child and the sole receiver of attention, but he knew what they were, really.

He had wondered vacantly, through each of her six years with him, why he could not wear something as beautiful as she did. Why she got the dresses and headbands and bracelets and dolls and pretty toys and he did not. Why she was allowed to wear pieces of her mother’s makeup and he got admonished when he tried. He was not looking for attention like all of the adults thought he was.

Mischa was so pretty. He just wanted to be pretty.

He just wanted to feel good and happy in his own body, and he never understood why he didn’t and couldn’t.

And when he lost Mischa, in those few frantic moments when she was taken from him and gone forever, he knew he could never let her go. Tangibly, all he had been able to hang on to was her bracelet, the one he wore each evening. But he felt her ghost within him, attaching itself to the secret corners of his mind - the places where no one ever went. The rooms that Hannibal tried to lock even himself out of, but he could never quite lose the keys. She took up residence there and made friends with the feminine demons inside of him, and soon enough became one with them.

Hannibal knew he could never let her die, never deny Mischa anything she wanted. And if what she wanted was a life, Hannibal was happy to provide that for her. It was the least he could do to name that part, the better part, of himself after her. She always did deserve the best, and he would give it to her.

In this way, he was finally satisfying a piece of himself, as well. A piece that had begun tiny but snowballed into something so big he could hardly control it. It was nearly all encompassing, suffocating him with it’s weight every second of his day. The suits he wore were too tight and confining compared to the dresses that Mischa chose to wear. Every inch of his skin felt stretched taut over his bones in the most uncomfortable way until the tie came off at the end of the day and he could relax into himself, allow himself to simply _be_. Outside any prying eyes, outside the confines of any gender.

He could be just Mischa, yes. It would be easy. He could skip town, skip country even, and start life anew. He could make new friends, establish a new career. He could get surgery and he could be a completely new person.

But deep down, Hannibal did not know if that is what he wanted. He was terrified that if he did that, he would feel less like himself than he already did. He was so accustomed to living this kind of double life, that he was not sure if leaving Hannibal behind completely would truly make him happy. The complete permanence and sheer risk of surgery terrified him. He felt strange, fake, impossible for wanting both, but he could not help himself. He didn’t think he _could_  leave Hannibal behind.

Hannibal reached out with hands that wanted to tremble and plucked up a metal tube and a razor. He shook it and lathered the foam on his legs before running the razor up them, cleaning away the cream in stripes.

He could never leave Hannibal behind. That would mean leaving the Ripper behind.

That would mean leaving _Will_ behind. And neither Hannibal nor Mischa could handle that.

He turned off the shower and stood there for a moment in the dissipating steam. He had no patients today. No reason to _not_  be Mischa, other than the possibility of Will or Jack or someone from the bureau turning up. He hated days like this. Days when the only reason he refused himself was the notion that someone could find out his secret inadvertently.

He wished he could ignore Mischa for one day. Get one day of sweet and silent bliss, with no guilt or hatred lying beneath the surface. He wanted to be in control, he needed it and craved it. Still standing in the shower, the air beginning to chill around him, he thought about seeking out someone from his rolodex. As Hannibal, he never felt more in control than he did when killing someone, tearing into their insides and leaving them displayed _just so_ , bringing pieces of them back to his kitchen and bringing them to life once more in a way only he knew how.

Grabbing a towel, he dried his hair a bit before wrapping it around his waist. Looking in the mirror, deciding to defiantly leave the stubble budding on his face, he mentally thought about what piece he would take. Perhaps a nice set of lungs. A kidney. He had not indulged in a heart in some time…

Mischa’s voice tore through him, ripping through his chest like a scalpel. She admonished him and Hannibal hung his head. _”You cannot kill someone now. Jack will send Will on the case and then he won’t call tonight or tomorrow or the next day and we will never go to dinner. I know you want this as much as I do.”_

She was right, and he knew it. He wanted the attention, the softly spoken words, the timid touches from Will and he would take that away from himself if he followed through.

He wanted to ignore her. He wanted the control. But instead, he walked to his room and put on a suit, something in a nice chestnut offset with red. He decided he would call his tailor today, and set up an appointment to get something nice for Mischa to wear on her date with Will. He couldn’t let her look anything less than perfect.

He needed Will to adore her as much as he did.

\--

“Good afternoon, Dr. Lecter. It’s always a pleasure to see you.”

“The pleasure is mine, sir.” Hannibal said, inclining his head slightly and shaking the other man’s hand. He was ushered into the back of the tailor shop almost immediately. He was fortunate to be one of the more preferred customers at this establishment.

He was also fortunate that this tailor was genuinely understanding of the types of garments he purchased. Hannibal supposed that it could be only because the shop did not want to lose his patronage; he got a new suit made for himself nearly weekly, and he often shopped for Mischa more frequently.

Asking his tailor the first time to make him a dress had been nerve wracking, to say the least, but Hannibal knew in the back of his mind that if he needed to, he could find a new tailor and this one could just as easily be dinner. This man took it all in stride, however. He had clapped him on the back, told him that there was nothing to be ashamed of, that he’d been asked to do much stranger in his line of work, and took him back to look at fabrics. That had been nearly a year ago, and Hannibal had been nothing but pleased with the service ever since.

“What are you looking for today, Doctor?” the tailor asked, before sitting him in a plush armchair and handing him a small glass of expensive smelling brandy.

“I’m hoping to find my sister a new dress for an evening out to dinner.” Hannibal said smoothly, and his tailor nodded and smiled. Instead of making Hannibal explain himself and the complexities of his identity, his tailor had suggested he refer to his feminine side as his sister when he needed a new dress, in order to make Hannibal feel as comfortable as he could.

The man had no idea just how close to the truth he was.

“What colors do you have in mind?”

“I’m not sure. Something soft. Pink perhaps, with a gold trim.”

“I’ll go bring some swatches for you to have a look at, Doctor.”

Hannibal smiled as the man left. He sipped at his brandy and reflected on how much he took comfort in this establishment. His tailor was the one and only person who knew his secret and had been allowed to live, and this man was more generous and accommodating than he ever could have anticipated him being. He never assumed anything, was almost clinical when taking his measurements, never asked any questions regardless of what Hannibal came in and wanted.

Hannibal also reveled in the fact that his tailor only used his title when speaking to him since his secret had come out. Doctor. It was a term of respect, of accomplishment, and yet it had no inclination of gender attached. He could be Doctor Lecter just as much as Mischa could, if she wanted. It was a small comfort, knowing that people would not call him _mister_ or _sir_ when they could easily fall back on _doctor_.

Hannibal finished off his brandy as his tailor returned with an armful of fabrics in varying shades of pink. He crossed one leg over the other as Mischa hummed with excitement inside him. He was going to make sure she looked absolutely stunning for their Will.

\--

Mischa sat proudly in her room, looking at her reflection in the mirror, preening. Every few moments, she glanced toward her cell phone that sat on top of the vanity, just to make sure she hadn’t somehow missed a call or message.

Hannibal had been put away for the night, and Mischa was waiting anxiously for the phone call Will had promised her. She didn’t think he would leave her hanging, but then what did she know? He may have been too drunk to even remember; he may have been just drunk enough to figure out her secret right on the spot. She hadn’t even given half a thought to Will’s empathy. Of course he would have been able to see straight through her. That would explain why neither she nor Hannibal had heard from Will all day.

Mischa’s chest tightened and she closed her eyes to take a steadying breath through her slightly parted, perfectly glossed lips. She was getting much too far ahead of herself. She knew that Will never used his empathy intentionally outside of work. Will was a good man. He would call her. He wouldn’t stand her up.

_That would be rude._

In an attempt to distract herself, Mischa reached for a well loved bottle of matte light pink nail polish. She knew she would just have to take it off her hands before Hannibal saw any of patients in the morning, but for now it would give her something to focus on, something to do with her hands. With measured and precise strokes, she had almost her entire right hand painted when her phone began vibrating against the wood of the vanity, making some of the bottles settled there knock together.

She leaned forward to look at the display, blowing absently on her nails. She saw a number that her phone did not recognize, but one that was achingly familiar. Her heart fluttered in her chest. She suddenly couldn’t wait to hear Will’s voice again. However, she waited until the fourth ring to answer the call - childish, she knew, but she couldn’t shake the thought of seeming desperate. The last thing she wanted to do was cling.

Slowly, she flicked a still drying finger over the display to unlock it. “Hello?”

“Uh, hi. Is this Mischa?” Will’s voice was shaky and he sounded nervous. Affection swelled within Mischa. She could almost imagine the color rising in his cheeks at how awkward he sounded.

“Yes, this is she.” She kept her voice sure and solid, yet light and airy at the same time.

“This is Will. Will Graham. From last night?”

Mischa allowed herself to laugh. “Yes, of course. How could I forget you?”

Will’s laugh travelled back to her through the line and she felt herself smiling, baring her teeth and not meaning to.

“I-I’m sorry…” Will’s laugh trailed off and for a white hot moment, Mischa was terrified that this was the end. Will was calling her to break it off before anything had even started. “I’m terrible on the phone. I don’t usually make a lot of phone calls.”

Mischa’s sigh of relief was audible through the call. “That’s all right. I don’t either. We don’t have to talk for long if you don’t want to. Only long enough for you to ask me on another date, I think.”

“I like a girl who knows what she wants.” Mischa heard Will shift the phone, she imagined it stuck between his shoulder and jaw bone and a shiver ran down her spine as she imagined being cradled there as well. “I have plans to make us dinner reservations next week. Is there a day that’s better than another?”

Mischa thought for a moment, trying not to dwell on the fact that Will was offering to make the arrangements - something most un-Will-like. He was stepping out of his comfort zone for her and she was elated. Quickly, mentally went through her schedule of appointments, and when her new dress would be done, trying to decide on a day that would suit both of them. “How about Wednesday night?”

“Wednesday sounds perfect, Mischa. I can’t wait.”

“Neither can I, Will. Oh, and if you don’t want to call me, feel free to text me whenever.”

“Thanks. I would like that. Have a good night.”

“You too, Will.”

She hung up the phone, a smile painting her lips a rosy pink. She looked to the doll on the vanity and pressed a kiss to her forehead, leaving a silent promise that she would not let Will slip through her fingers.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this chapter was a little slow. Things start picking up after this, I promise!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal picks up a dress...and a business card.   
> Mischa goes to dinner with Will, and plans another date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this took so long! I had a bit of a hard time writing, and both my computer and my wifi haven't been cooperating with me. I hope to have the next chapter up much quicker than I had this one posted!

_You’re the lonely one and only body in the world, who can make me, who can break me down into a young girl. - Hypocrites, Marina and the Diamonds._

Hannibal closed the slim book on his desk on Tuesday afternoon, excitement both barely and carefully contained humming through the veins in his fingers. His patients were finally done for the day, and he had given himself tomorrow off so he could wake up and have no interruptions; he could be Mischa all day in preparation for meeting up with Will again. He could transform this evening, and stay that way until the next. This afternoon, he was going to the tailor to pick up Mischa’s dress and his heart skipped a beat in trepidation just thinking about it. Would the colors be right? Would it hang _just so_ on his hips? He hoped the trim he suggested would be classy and not gaudy. He trusted his tailor - the man knew what it was both Hannibal and Mischa were looking for and yet to steer him wrong, but it was still a nerve wracking experience. If the dress wasn’t absolutely perfect, she would have to wear something else from her closet. Something that wasn’t tailored and made specifically for Will, and somehow that seemed absolutely uncouth. It rubbed and prickled at Mischa’s skin the wrong way, like a razor dragged down her legs the wrong way.

Hannibal shook his head, shook the thoughts off, and rose from his desk. The dress would be perfect. Hannibal knew it. He needn’t worry. But that was something easier said than done. Straightening the fronts of his trousers, he pushed his chair in and clicked off the lamp on the desk. He skimmed the office to make sure everything was in order, and picked his coat off the rack it hung on after correcting the angle of one of the chairs. Hannibal put his arms in the sleeves of his coat and sunk his hands into the pockets, searching for his keys. His fingers brushed up against the phone he had stowed in his left pocket hastily as he had left the house. Mischa’s phone.  
Taking a deep breath, he closed his hand around the device and pulled it from his pocket. Feeling like a teenager, he pressed the button the top with bated breath. His heart skipped a beat when the display woke up and showed a message from Will. The only person who could ever encite this kind of reaction from both Hannibal and Mischa. There was something about the way he spoke to Mischa, the interest he had in her - genuine and pure, that made Mischa bubble up inside of Hannibal’s chest, feeling like a schoolgirl getting her first Valentine’s Day card. Sliding open the lock, Hannibal read the message with Mischa’s eyes.

_Good afternoon, doll. I hope work is treating you well. :)_

Hannibal smiled, but it was Mischa on his lips, in his fingertips typing the reply. He let her take over, she always warmed his chest up so nicely when she did. Mischa was such a bright light in his dark life. She burned like a candle, small and hopefully and sweet smelling. Warm, but not suffocating in her heat. She warmed his fingers and toes and left his cheeks rosy and perfect. Hannibal hated that sometimes he had to blow the flame out instead of letting it flicker, that he had to choke her voice with the smoke instead of letting it crackle and flicker into life.

_Work was good, I got out early. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow!_

Mischa fired the text back quickly, and Hannibal followed her out of the office, trailing her heels. She was in charge now, and he let her take him over. She carried herself with such an ease that it was a comfort to step out of his skin and let her take control. She locked up Hannibal’s office carefully and succinctly, and Hannibal could almost see the nail polish on her fingers. She would have to see what the exact shade and coloring of the dress was before she painted her nails tonight. They had to be perfect.  
Everything had to be perfect.

On the drive to the tailor’s, Mischa moved aside slightly to allow Hannibal to interact with the workers and people at the shop. She allowed him to speak with his voice, the smoke, and keep hers, the flame, hidden just beyond the cavern of his mouth. He swallowed down her warmth, but still felt it burning a trail up his throat, coloring his words golden. She knew she was going to be let out soon, and she could allow Hannibal dominance for a while longer.

Hannibal was more than ready to let her take over. He was bursting with excitement at the thought of becoming Mischa tonight, and getting to stay with her for the entire next day. He parked his Bentley, walked across the parking lot, and entered the shop with a certain spring in his step. Anticipated bubbled at the thought of seeing the dress. He hoped it lived up to his standards. His tailor had yet to disappoint him, and Hannibal was sure his work would be impeccable once again.

The bell on the top of the door chimed softly as Hannibal entered. He was greeted by an assistant sitting at the desk in the front room of the establishment. This man was someone he had never seen before. He looked young - possibly in his late twenties - Hannibal concluded quickly that he must be new help. He smiled and gave a curt nod to the man as he walked closer to the desk.

“Name, sir?” Hannibal inwardly cringed. This man was definitely new; all the other staff had known to address him only as doctor. This place was meant to be his safe haven. Anger flared within him, Mischa helping to quietly fan the flame. He would have to talk to his tailor about this as soon as he was given the opportunity, though he knew that would probably not be today. When he came to pick up his clothing, he usually only dealt with the receptionist.

“Hannibal Lecter.” He kept his composure and spoke smoothly, though he was still shaken inside at the slip he had not been expecting.

The man nodded and typed a few things into the computer that sat on the desk in front of him before rising and heading into the back where the clothes were kept. Moments later, he returned with a clear garment bag slung over his shoulder and a confused expression on his face. Hannibal saw the pink peeking out from behind him and his heart fluttered. It was the _perfect_ shade.

“You’ll have to give me just a second. There must have been some mishap with the computer here…” The man said, gesturing to the dress draped over his shoulder.

“No, I’m sure there was not.”

The assistant laughed, taking the garment bag off his shoulder and holding the dress up. The gold trim caught the light even through the cellophane and took Hannibal’s breath away. “Look at this, man. This isn’t what you came here for.”

Hannibal stared for a moment while the man typed something else into the computer. He blinked into the silence punctuated only by the typing of keys.  
“It keeps coming up with this under you. I’ll have to call the boss.”

“You do not.” Hannibal said, his voice still strong. “That is what I ordered.”

Confusion knit the other man’s brow and he looked almost comically from the dress to Hannibal standing on the other side of the desk.

“You’re joking with me.”

“I assure you I am not. Please give me my clothing and I will be on my way.”

“Okay…” The man rang Hannibal out and Hannibal paid the bill, not really paying much mind to how much it cost. “I hope you enjoy.”

“I most certainly will.”

Hannibal had almost turned around, when the assistant mumbled something under his breath that any other person may not have caught. But Hannibal’s perfectly tuned ears caught every syllable of the quietly uttered sentence. “You’re into some freaky shit, mister.”

Hannibal stopped walking and rage burned, seared within him. He turned around curtly and said only one thing. “May I have your business card?”

\--

Heaving a sigh, Hannibal closed the door behind him. He leaned up against it for a moment and breathed, trying to center himself. He needed to leave the negativity of his experience at the door, hanging up with his suit. He could already feel Mischa beginning to soothe him, telling him to put it out of his mind and let her take over, that nothing else mattered but getting ready for Will right now. Taking a few deep breaths, he removed his jacket and waistcoat. He breathed in, unknotted his tie, breathed out, slipped it from around his neck. One more deep breath and he undid his pants, sliding them off on the exhale.

Naked now, he stared at himself in the mirror. He watched his reflection shift from something with sharp angles and edges to a visage of soft beauty, even if it was only in his mind. He closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose as Hannibal, exhaled as Mischa, and walked into the room.

Mischa’s presence filled the very air as soon as she let go of Hannibal. Her footsteps were lighter, shoulders held straighter, head held higher. She carried her new dress through the room and hung it on a hook next to her vanity and began to unwrap it. The color was perfect, a light pink and the cinched gold trim tied in a perfect bow around the waist was going to make her hips look _devine_. The waist fell into cascading pleated folds that she knew would flatter her figure. She wanted desperately to try it on, but she knew if she did that now she would never take it off. Her tailor had never disappointed before - she knew it was going to fit her perfectly. Instead, she settled on selecting a shade of nail polish that would match and began filing her nails into shape.

She had finished the first coat and was letting it dry before applying another when her phone began to vibrate. Leaning forward and seeing Will’s number on the caller id, she carefully unlocked her phone and put it on speaker before answering.

“Hello?” There was a smile in her voice. She always seemed to be painting her nails when Will called her.

“Good evening, doll.” Mischa’s eyes fell on the doll sitting in front of her. She reached out and smoothed a piece of her plastic hair away from her painted face.

“Hi, Will. How are you?”

“I’m good. Really good, actually. I just wanted to call and ask you if you wanted me to come pick you up for dinner tomorrow.”

Mischa paused for a beat. Will _couldn’t_ come pick her up. He would recognize Hannibal’s house in a moment, and that would be the end of everything. Much, much too soon. “Oh, no. That’s quite alright. I would prefer to drive myself.”

“No problem, I just wanted to do the gentlemanly thing and offer-” Will’s voice was cut off by a cacophony of barking and Mischa knew that he had just walked in the door of his home. She imagined the dogs circling around him, barking happily and licking every inch of him they could reach. “Oh, god sorry - _tss!_ ”

Mischa laughed, a light sound, like a small windchime in a delicate breeze. “You have dogs, I see?”

“Uh, yeah. More than I probably should.”

“How many?” Mischa asked, knowing the answer.

Now it was Will’s turn to be silent for a moment. “Um, seven. I rescue them.”

“That’s wonderful. I’m sure you give them a lovely home.”

“Well, I try.”

Mischa let the silence between them stretch for a moment and listened to Will breathing on the other line. “Where am I meeting you for dinner?”

“Oh! I made us reservations. I hope Italian is okay. I can text you the address if that would be easier. Around seven?”

“That sounds perfect, Will. Thank you. I can’t wait to see you.”

“Goodnight, Mischa.”

Mischa let the call end on its own, listening to the small electronic beep after Will disconnected. She slept on the small couch in her room again that evening once her nails dried.  
The morning found her awake and eager to get ready and look absolutely perfect for the evening, but she forced herself to relax for most of it - reading through the paper leisurely on her iPad, sipping coffee, and making a light brunch of scrambled egg whites and crisp bacon. She made herself wait to start getting ready until nearly four, knowing that if she started any earlier her makeup would run and her hair would flatten before she even went out. But when she finally put her dress on, she wished she had put it on earlier.

Inside the pink and gold fabric, she felt alive. The blood in her veins sang and rejoiced - this dress was absolutely _perfect_. She stared at her own reflection for longer than she would ever admit, but she felt beautiful - immaculate and she never wanted to forget how she felt in that moment.

She spent about a half hour painstakingly curling her wig into the perfect shape before putting on and arranging the locks around her shoulders. She pinned a piece of it back with a small gold hair clip in the shape of a bow that mirrored the one on her waist. Once she was satisfied with the way her hair framed her face, she moved on to applying her make up. A bit of foundation, followed by a dusting of powder, and topped off with a small amount of eyeliner and mascara. Understated and nothing over the top, but enough to make her eyes shine in a way she knew Will wouldn’t be able to look away from. A bit of baby pink lipgloss and she was _more_ than pleased with her appearance. Stepping into her flats (a light color of gold as well) and spraying two pumps of perfume on her wrists, she was ready to go.

The drive to the restaurant was short, and Will was waiting for her at the door when she arrived. He smiled and waved at her as she walked over and Mischa couldn’t help but smile back.

“You look beautiful.” Will said, a bit breathless. Mischa smiled even broader and thanked him, allowing a blush to creep across her cheeks as she kissed him on his. “Shall we go in?”

Mischa allowed Will to open the door for her and lead her to the table that had been reserved for the two of them. He pulled out her chair for her and she sat down, the smile never fading from her face. There was something about being in the presence of Will in a setting like this that her made feel so young and full of life - like nothing else in the world mattered outside of the moments she spent with him paying so much rapt attention to her. Mentally, Mischa chided herself. This was only really their _first_ date. She couldn’t let Hannibal’s experiences color her own, but with Will it was almost impossible.

They were only seated for a moment before a waiter came over and offered them two glasses of wine, which they accepted. They stayed relatively quiet while looking over the menus and ordering their food, but when the waiter took their menus and retreated with their orders to the kitchen the small talk began.  
“I’m so glad you came, Mischa.” Will said.

“I’m glad to be here.” She answered. She loved the way Will said her name so much. It sounded so beautiful, so poetic, slipping off his tongue so frequently. Since beginning to speak with Will, she had never heard her name said aloud by many others, and Will said it in such a musical way… “How was your day?”

“Oh, nothing too out of the ordinary. Just work."

“What is it that you do?” Mischa sipped her wine. A bit dry, but still good.

“I’m a teacher at Quantico. The, uh, FBI academy. And sometimes I consult on crime scenes.”

“How interesting! That can get a bit gruesome, can’t it?”

“You have no idea. It doesn’t really make for polite table conversation. How about you? What do you do?”

“I’m a bit of a freelance writer. I used to run a pretty popular travel blog, but my company dropped me. That’s why I moved out here. I hoped being in a bigger city might spark something else to write about. I’m also looking into doing some private tutoring.” Mischa let the lie roll of her tongue, well rehearsed.

“Well, if I have any problem students I’ll send them your way.”

Mischa enjoyed the laughter they shared as their dinner arrived. They fell relatively silent again as they ate, Mischa watching the way Will’s lips moved as chewed out of the corner of her eye. Certain habits were harder to break than others. The food was tasteful - well arranged on the plate and seasoned well enough that she enjoyed every bite even with her refined palate.

“You said you have seven dogs.” Mischa spoke, her inflection making the statement a question. “What made you start rescuing them?”

“Well, I don’t really know. I’ve always loved dogs. I had one when I was younger and I rescued him, too. He was just a scrawny little thing - I found him rooting in our trash. I begged my dad to let me keep him and he said I could, but he had to stay outside. I kept him for a while, but eventually he ran away from me like he must have from his original owner. And since then, I just take in strays I see on the side of the road. I live kind of in the middle of nowhere, and I get a lot of lost strays. I hate seeing them outside, cold with nothing to eat. So it’s the least I can do to take them in.” Will paused, finishing off his wine. “Wow, that was probably too much. The wine must be getting to me.”

“No, I liked hearing it. It’s good to be passionate about something.”

Will mumbled something into his empty glass that sounded like “I guess so.”

“Has the wine got to you enough to want to dance?”

Will’s eyes grew comically large. “Oh, no. No, I don’t-- I _can’t_ dance.”

“Come on, there’s no such thing as can’t!”

“No, really, Mischa. I don’t know how.”

“Well, let me teach you.”

“Not here!” Will said, lowering his voice and looking wildly at the other couples at the tables surrounding them.

“I’ll have to come over sometime and teach you then, won’t I?” Mischa said, finishing her own wine and feeling bold.

“Yes, I guess you will.”

“How does Friday sound?”

Will caught Mischa’s eyes and looked directly into them as he answered. “That actually sounds perfect.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will goes to therapy.   
> Mischa dances with Will.  
> Hannibal pays someone a visit...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this has taken me so long! I sort of became disenchanted with this story and writing in general, but just know that I have been working steadily on this since October. I hope it doesn't suck. If you find any errors, please let me know. I did proofread, but I wrote this over the span of like five months, like I said!

_Rule number one, is that you've gotta have fun. But baby, when you're done, you gotta be the first to run. - How To Be a Heartbreaker, Marina and the Diamonds_

Before Mischa had really had much of a chance to process the events of the night before, Hannibal found himself sat in his office nearly done with his clients for the day. 

Nearly. 

He glanced at the clock and saw that it was almost seven. Will would be turning up any moment for his session. He wondered what the pair of them would talk about - there had not been any significant cases in the past few days, as the Chesapeake Ripper had been _considerably_ busy with other things. Hannibal reached out and slid a pencil on his desk back into it’s proper place, perfectly parallel with the appointment book also laid there. As the seconds ticked into minutes, something spread in his chest at the anticipation of Will’s arrival. 

He could feel her, Mischa, deep within him. She was begging him to fix his hair, to make sure his tie was straight, to make his ugly visage as presentable as it could possibly hope to be. She knew Will was coming, and she knew that she wanted to impress him. Hannibal could feel her excitement swirling inside him, but the motion was making him sick. Her excitement was nearly crushed by his dread and fear. This would be the first time that Will was going to see Hannibal since meeting Mischa, and what would happen if he somehow connected the dots? Saw the similarities in their faces? Noticed they shared the same eye color? Realized the way Mischa’s shoulders and knees set was identical to Hannibal’s? 

Will was too astute for his own good, and while Hannibal had been able to keep him in the dark for now, he was worried that a piece of Will’s empathy would pick up the parts of Mischa that he was trying to bury beneath his lungs. And then what would happen? Hannibal was a complete stranger to the emotions he was feeling - he had not felt anxious or apprehensive around anyone in years. And it was almost ridiculous to think that it was _Will_ who was making him feel this way. But deep down, Hannibal knew it wasn’t Will. No, it was himself. This dirty, disgusting, and _wrong_ part of himself. 

Mischa screamed inside of him. She wasn’t disgusting. She wasn’t dirty. She was beautiful, and they both knew it. 

A knock sounded on the door. Three short, quick taps. The moment of truth. 

Hannibal rose and walked across his office, his steps crisp and sure. He tugged on the bottom of his waistcoat, ensuring that it was in the right place before opening the door up to Will. He ushered the other man inside with as much finesse as he usually did, guiding Will to his chair, asking him how he was without even a hint of just how hard his heart was hammering up his throat. 

“I’m doing - quite well, actually.” Will answered as Hannibal settled into the seat across from him and crossed his legs. _At the knee, not the ankle_ he reminded himself. 

“I am glad to hear. Any particular cause?” Hannibal asked smoothly, hoping not to convey that he knew the exact reason why. 

“A lot of things, really. Things have been quiet at Quantico lately. Jack has been more or less leaving me alone for the past few days. I’ve just been teaching classes and going home to the dogs.” 

“Your dogs are well, I take it.” 

“Very well. It’s nice, going home at a reasonable hour every day. Grading papers and falling asleep with no more than half a shot of whiskey to help. The Ripper must be on vacation.” Will laughed at himself. 

Hannibal smiled graciously, easily falling into the role he knew he needed to fall into. He needed to keep Will encouraged, needed to keep him talking. Mischa seeped into his hands and fingers and stretched the skin against his knuckles. She was bursting to know what Will thought of her, his honest and truest thoughts. The ones that he could - and would - only confide in Hannibal. Hannibal himself felt conflicted, like this was taking advantage of Will in some dark and quiet way. 

“He picked a good time to go off the grid.” Will kept speaking before Hannibal could dwell on his thoughts any further. 

“Oh?” Hannibal intoned, injecting piqued interest into his tone. “How so?” 

“Well - Oh, I wasn’t going to say anything. It seems so trivial and frivolous. Too soon. I feel ridiculous.” 

“Will.” Hannibal spoke, his tone slightly stern but not in an intimidating way. His heart skipped a beat. He knew what Will was hedging around saying. It couldn’t be anything else. 

“I am your therapist, but firstly I am your friend. And fulfilling both roles, I can assure you I want to know what has affected you in such a positive way. I am sure it is neither frivolous nor ridiculous.” 

“I...I’ve met someone.” Will said to the floor, his voice slightly muffled by the collar of his shirt. 

Mischa struggled against Hannibal’s vocal cords for a terrifying moment. Hannibal felt her trying to move his lips, trying to speak over him, trying to move his arms and hands and crawl to Will and have him envelope her in his grip. 

“Have you?” Hannibal was minutely proud that his voice came out as strongly as it had - his own, calm and sure. 

“Yeah, I did.” 

“Where did you meet them?” 

“At a bar. I met her at a bar one night last week.”

“Her? What is her name?” 

“Mischa. Her name is Mischa. Lawson.” 

Hannibal forgot to breathe for a moment. Not long enough to lose his composure visually, but for long enough for Mischa to attempt to crawl to the surface again. 

“I think we’re sort of dating.” 

 

“You only think?” Hannibal asked, but his voice sounded like it came from somewhere else, someone else. 

“Well, I guess we are. I took her to dinner last night.” Will mentioned the name of the restaurant in a an off-handed way. 

“Quite the gentleman, Will. I’m sure she loved it.” 

Will shrugged. “She’s supposed to be coming to my house tomorrow night.” Will buried his face in his hands. “She wants to teach me to dance.” 

Hannibal smiled and laughed a bit, all teeth - on purpose. A sharp reminder of who he was and who he needed to be in that moment. 

“Don’t laugh!” Will exclaimed, but there was mirth in his voice. He looked up from his palms. “She’s beautiful, Hannibal. Absolutely stunning. I wish you could see her. I don’t know what _she_ sees in me.” 

“She sees exactly everything that is there, Will. She sees you.” 

Will shook his head. Hannibal had to focus on keeping Mischa tucked away. It felt like she was twirling around inside of him, doing spins in a long skirt that fanned out around her hips. She was putting on lipstick and picking petals off a red flower - he loves me, he loves me not, _he loves me_. 

“I guess so.” Will said quietly. 

“Do promise me one thing.” Hannibal said, barely above a whisper. 

“What?” 

“Do your very best to keep our Thursday night date free.” Hannibal finished with a smile, standing and offering Will a glass of wine. Will smiled and declined politely, and Hannibal was proud of that. He walked Will to the door and closed it gently behind him, standing behind it for a few moments revelling in the smell of him that was left in his wake. 

\-- 

Mischa knocked on Will’s door, at six o’clock sharp. It would not do to be late. She was not one of those girls that decided it was fashionable and cute to be late. No, she knew what manners were, and she knew how to be on time. She also knew how Will would worry if he was kept waiting, if she was only a few moments later than she had said she would be. She would never do that to him intentionally, not if she could help it. 

She rearranged the hem of her dress as she listened to nails skitter across a hardwood floor, punctuated by a few barks here and there. She heard Will walk through the dogs from the other side of the door, she heard him shush them just like he had on the phone. 

“Give me just a second! The dogs got out and I don’t want them to jump all over you.” 

“Okay!” Mischa laughed, the sound carrying through the cracks around the door to Will. “Take your time, I’m not going anywhere!” 

Mischa looked down at herself, tried to catch her reflection in one of Will’s windows. She wore a lace dress, one that had been hanging in her closet for a while, but she had never worn. She thought this would be a perfect time to break it in. The lace fell in flowered patterns across her chest and hips. She wore a pink flower in her hair and a simple silver necklace. The chain was delicate and attached was a tiny bow in the same silver as the rest of the chain. She wore simple black flats - if she was going to teach Will to dance she wanted to be comfortable. She didn’t want to be too tall. 

She bounced slightly on her heels, getting slightly anxious waiting for Will to open the door. She couldn’t wait to see him, if she was being honest with herself. She felt moths chasing themselves around her stomach at the thought of seeing him, smiling, holding back his dogs from her. She felt her cheeks heat up and a small grin flit across her lips as the door opened before her. She quickly reached up to make sure her hair was laying in place correctly before Will had the door all the way open. 

“Sorry.” Will offered with a sheepish smile. He opened the door and let her in, an exact mirror of how Hannibal let him into his office each week. Mischa shook the thought of him from her mind. This was her night, and Will was all hers. He was _not_ going to ruin it for her. She was not going to let him. “They’ll calm down in a bit. I just didn’t want them jumping on you and ruining your dress or...or anything.” 

“Don’t be sorry. It’s really fine. I would love to meet them once they relax a little bit.” 

Will smiled again, this time a bigger one that reached up to crinkle the corners of his eyes. He closed the door behind her as she walked in. He took her purse from her and placed it on the small table next to the doorway. Mischa could tell that he felt awkward, the way his eyes kept flitting from her face to the floor and the lopsided smile on his lips were tell tale signs. 

“Hello.” She said, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. It felt hot and rough with stubble beneath her lips. 

“Hi, doll.” Will whispered, his jaw moving under Mischa’s mouth. He turned his head and caught her glossy smooth lips with his own, and Mischa’s heart caught in her throat as she kissed back. 

Sooner than she would have liked, Will broke away from their embrace. He took her hand and guided her through his living room out to his back porch. Out there, two chairs sat in the orange tinted glow of the beginnings of a sunset mixed with the porch light that buzzed and attracted tiny bugs. She looked out over the railing, appreciating the woods and the solitary quiet that Will surrounded himself in. She felt honored to be let inside, and she hoped she could make her presence permanent. She wanted to worm into the wood of the trees surrounding Will’s tiny safe haven of a house, she wanted to make her home there. She wanted to carve her initials into the bark, into the back of each and every one of Will’s teeth. She wanted her name to sing through his veins. She wanted to be the one and only thing he ever thought about anymore. She wanted to exist with Will, here in the quiet, away from the world. She wanted to erase every other part of her, and just be able to be _her_ \- here in this shining bit of warmth isolated from everyone and everything else. 

“Please, sit down.” Will said from behind her. “I’ll pour you a glass of wine.” 

Mischa nodded her thanks as she stepped away from the rail of the porch, not even having realized she had wrapped her hands around it. “I’m sorry, I got distracted. It’s so beautiful out here, Will.” 

“Just like you, doll.” Will said, kissing her on the temple and handing her a glass filled halfway with pink wine. She smelled it, swilling it around, before squashing Hannibal down within her once more. He had no doubt taught Will how much to fill a wine glass, how much air was needed to make the sweet wine taste and smell the crispest. 

_No._

Mischa sipped the wine, trying to swallow Hannibal down her throat and keep him locked inside her stomach. She would drown him if she had to. 

“What kind of wine is this?” She asked, sipping again, recalling the familiar taste. 

“Uh, well…” Will trailed off, his eyes reflecting the blooming colors of the sunset. “After you left the bar that first night, I went back in and asked the tender what kind of wine you were drinking. Just in case I ever needed to pick you up a bottle.” 

Mischa smiled, taking another sip. “This is not a cheap vintage.” 

“I know. But nothing is too good for you, doll.” 

Mischa shook her head, smiling even bigger, her lips fighting to part and display the sharp points of the teeth she tried to lock inside. If any part of her was inherently _Hannibal_ , it was her teeth. They were his weapon, they were the way he earned his living, he used them to commit his crimes - to chew and to swallow - and he used them to keep every single one of his secrets safe and locked away. He spewed every single one of his lies from between them. 

“I appreciate it. What are you drinking?” her voice was calm, light, cheerful - not betraying the smoldering embers of the fire inside her, trying to suffocate her, trying to wear away at the very structure of her. Each piece of her should be happy right now - she had Will, right here in front of her, she was minutes away from being wrapped inside his arms - and that was everything that both she and Hannibal had ever wanted. But she felt Hannibal quietly resenting her for succeeding in places that he could never. 

“Are you implying that I need to be drunk in order to dance?” Will asked, ever sarcastic. 

“Well, it certainly won’t hurt.” Mischa laughed with Will and watched him pick up a small tumbler off of a small table. 

“Whiskey. And, uh, not much else.” He took a swig of the brown liquid and hardly winced, even as Mischa imagined it burning down his throat 

“I don’t know how you can drink that swill.” Mischa said quietly, sipping at her own drink again to dispel the phantom taste of cheap liquor on her tongue. 

“Hey, I didn’t hear you complain at the bar when I was buying you shots.” Will took another sip, smiling still. 

“That was different! And I’m absolutely sure that whiskey was a better quality than what you’re drinking now.” 

“You’re probably right, there. You know, you sound like a friend of mine. He’s an absolute liquor snob.” Will set his drink down and moved closer to Mischa, just slightly. 

Mischa was frozen for a moment. She knew _exactly_ who Will was talking about. She wanted to be absolutely nothing like him, nothing at _all_. She didn’t want to remind anyone of him, and she definitely did not Will looking at her and thinking of _him_. Her insides burned like she had just taken a large swig of Will’s whiskey, the fire inside her fanning out and igniting her bones. She reached past Will and did exactly that, sliding the glass back down with a clatter. Unlike him, she did wince and shook her curls out as the alcohol blazed its way into her stomach, where Hannibal was clawing to get out. 

“I don’t like to think of myself as a snob.” She said, picking up the glass once more and finishing what was left, before pouring Will another. “I just know what I like.”

“And what’s that?” Will asked, sticking his chin out slightly. Mischa could tell he was trying to be coy. 

“If you keep buying me fancy wine and being such a gentleman, there’s a good chance that it’s you.” Mischa could be coy right back. She basked in the color that rose high in Will’s cheeks. It was entirely too easy to make him blush, and she loved it. If she was being honest with herself, which she always tried to be, she loved nearly every single thing about Will. She envied how confident he was in himself, she wished that she could exude that much self worth, and actually fully mean it. 

“Then there’s a good chance I will continue to do that.” Will leaned in to press a kiss to her cheek. Mischa could smell the alcohol on his breath, and she knew it was strong on hers as well. She wasn’t drunk, neither of them were, really, but she felt bold enough to turn her head and catch Will’s lips with her own. 

Will deepened the kiss, and Mischa was happy to have the control taken from her hands. Will’s hands slipped around her waist and traveled up her back as he licked into her mouth, tonight lighting across each of the teeth she so despised. Mischa allowed him to explore, hoping that he would claim each and every space in her mouth as his own and no one else’s. She leaned into his hands and reached hers up to tangle in his hair, tugging a bit and being rewarded with a small moan. Reluctantly, Will pulled back. 

“Are you going to teach me to dance?” 

Slightly breathless, Mischa responded. “Of course I am.” 

She reached onto the chair she had set her phone on and flicked it unlocked. “I brought my own music. I didn’t think you would have the right kind.” 

“You’re right. I’m a dirty boy from the south. I don’t know anything about the kind of dancing you’re going to teach me, or the kind of music it requires.”   
Mischa smiled again - her cheeks were starting to hurt from all of this, no one ever made her smile nearly as much as Will did - and scrolled through her phone before she settled on a simple violin concerto by Mozart. It was slightly fast paced, enough to keep Will’s attention and to keep the mood and atmosphere light and playful. She didn’t want this to seem like a serious dance lesson. She didn’t want to give off the wrong impression, she only knew a few basic steps herself no matter how eager she was to show them to Will. 

She was excited to have him hold her and look up to her for the guidance that only she could give. She wondered mildly if that was something she could blame Hannibal for. If it was, she couldn’t find it in herself to complain. 

“I’ll lead first, so I can teach you how to do it correctly.” 

Will nodded, waiting for direction on what to do. Mischa reached out and placed her hands on Will’s hips, centering him in front of her. She then gripped his hands, placing a small kiss on the back of each before settling one on her shoulder and one on her waist. She explained a few steps to him, instructing him to step backwards and forwards in sync with the counts and beats of the song. It didn’t take him long to get the hang of it, and Mischa was quietly proud of him. He moved his hands of his own accord, placing one on Mischa’s waist and grasping her hand in the other. 

He led flawlessly, and Mischa loved it. Will looked pleased with himself as well, smiling in a crooked way and concentrating on his feet. The steps they were doing were not complex in any way at all, but Mischa was impressed that Will had yet to stumble or step on her feet. He was doing much better than she had the first time she was taught to dance. He was sure in each of his strides, and Mischa was pleased that she had allowed him that confidence. 

They paused for a moment when the song changed again. The music looped back to the first piece they had listened to. Had they really been dancing for that long?   
Will looked at Mischa, the sunlight almost completely gone now, the porch light shining in his eyes. 

Will slid forward, slipping one of his legs between hers. She could feel the heat of his body and breath all over her. This was exactly what she wanted. She wanted every single thing about this, she wanted Will all over her, climbing down her spine and crawling inside of her. Will must have wanted this as well, because he was whispering kisses down her neck to her exposed collarbone. One of his hands wrapped around the small of her back and the other reached up to cup one of her breasts. Mischa’s heart started beating even more rapidly than it had been before. She could feel her desire pooling in her stomach and coiling almost uncomfortably between her legs. 

Still kissing Will, she shifted forward, trying to gain leverage in their embrace. Her skin felt surreal - like she was not really there, not really experiencing this, not really even a _person_ right now. Everything inside of her felt suddenly and terribly wrong. Something inside of her was broken, and the incongruity between her mind and how she felt physically was a tangible weight on her shoulders. Nothing was tingling, nothing was getting wet or throbbing with a desire to be touched and paid attention to. No, instead she was met with a crude feeling of growing weight stashed between her legs. It was hard and harsh and suffocating - and going to ruin the way her dress hung off her hips. She was terrified of giving herself away, even as Will shifted a bit against her, pulling her even closer to him. She felt the slight hardness between Will’s legs press against her thigh, and panicked, hoping the disgusting hardness between her own was concealed well enough. 

This was what she wanted - god it was - but it was something she knew could never happen. Not like this, not when Will still had no idea. And now was not a good time to explain anything, nor did she think a good time would ever come. Will was still breathing against her neck, the whiskey mingling with her perfume in his veins. She could smell the arousal coming off of him in waves, and she _wanted_ to do something about it. She wanted to, but she was terrified. Terrified he would try to reciprocate and everything would crumble at her feet. She could not allow that to happen. 

Her breath caught in her throat as Will rocked his hips slightly into hers. She could feel his erection straining in his pants. She needed to get out of this situation, even if she did not want to. She wanted to claw off her own skin and bare herself and all of her half-hidden truths, but she couldn’t. She worked to calm her breathing, to make her voice work, to think up a convincing excuse to leave. The very last thing she wanted to do was offend Will or make him think his affections were unrequited.   
“Doll, how about I teach you a little bit about the dancing I know how to do?” Will’s voice was husky, and Mischa felt tears stinging the corners of her perfectly lined eyes. Her own arousal was becoming more and more uncomfortable, bordering on painful, even as she tried to mentally put a stop to it. She didn’t want to give in to this, her body, the body that she hated at times like this more than anything else. 

“Will, I-” 

She was cut off by Will’s lips, and she melted into them for a brief moment before Will’s hands slid down her back again. Electricity shot down her spine, shocking her back into the moment. She had to get out of her before Will got any more carried away with his touches and his hands. His warm, inviting hands -

“Will, I’m sorry. I-I have...I need to go.” 

“Right now?” Will asked, bringing his head up to meet her eyes and stepping back slightly. Mischa’s breath came a bit easier, but pain rocketed into her lungs with each gulp of air. 

“Yes, right now. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Mischa began to gather up her things. She shoved her phone into her purse, still playing music. She would shut it off when she got in the car and her hands stopped trembling so much. 

“Mischa, wait!” Will called after her, but it was too much. She was already through the house, grabbing her jacket, the dogs barking from behind a closed door somewhere inside.   
“Mischa, please. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, I-” 

“You didn’t.” Mischa cut him off this time. “It’s me, not you. I’m sorry. I’ll call you tomorrow.” 

With that, she was out the front door, off the porch, and into her car in seconds. She started the car without looking back, even though she knew Will was standing agape on his porch. Hate swirled within her as the engine revved; hate toward herself for reacting in this manner, but mostly hate toward Hannibal and his traitorous body that she could not escape, no matter how hard she tried. 

After driving away from Will’s house in the direction of her own home for a while, Mischa yanked her car into the opposite lane. She couldn’t go home. Not like this, not with the anger and hate still searing through her veins. She could feel Hannibal within her, strong and powerful. She moved aside for him, gracelessly, knowing that there was no way she could fight him now, not like this. 

This was going to be crude. This was going to be vile. This was going to be dirty and animalistic and disgusting, but hopefully this would fill the aching hole that was beginning to rip its way through Hannibal’s chest. If he didn’t stop it, surely he would be torn open - a gaping hole from which all of his insides and secrets would spill forth in a bloody torrent. His thoughts swirled around in his head, diluted and diffused by hers. His fingers were clenched around her pocket knife. It was hardly how he _wanted_ to go about this, but he couldn’t deny himself _this_.

He still felt Will’s hands on Mischa, rough and warm. Commanding and yet inviting. And she had run. 

Even if his chest was covered in lace, smelled like her, and rose and fell more rapidly than it would have if he were on this hunt alone. But he had no time to go home and change. He had no time to get his plastic suit and the knives he preferred for this. He needed to do this now. He knew he would never be able to quiet the signing in his veins until he opened up someone else’s and watched the blood filter from the slits. 

He would have to make do. 

And she would have to deal with this. 

Hannibal realized where he was going only after he got there, his mind was in such a disarray. He turned his car off a few houses down the street and slid out of the door, closing it nearly soundlessly. He stopped in front of his destination and looked at the warm glow coming from the light within the windows. 

Sighing to himself, he crept into the milky darkness of the yard, thinking that this was not how he had planned this out. Usually, he stalked his prey for weeks before actually taking any action. He learned their habits, their routines, the nuances of their day to day lives in order to deduce the best time to spring. 

But this was a desperate situation, and he knew that he had enough skill to accomplish this kill without any flaws, even if he had forgone his plastic suit for a dress. Mischa had never killed, and Hannibal was almost delighted to teach her, even though he knew she would never approve. He did not expect her to. 

Hannibal crouched down in the sparse hedges just before the place the light of the living room met the darkness. He could see the back of his victim’s head, sitting in an armchair in front of the television, beer in hand. Hannibal knew this was going to be a satisfying kill. This man deserved every single thing that was coming to him. 

Hannibal quickly moved from the front yard to the porch and knocked on the door, planning to feign needing to use the phone hung on the wall of his kitchen, clearly exploiting the fact that he still was presenting female. Mischa felt used, scandalized and angry. She did not want any part of this, did not want to stand for anything that _Hannibal_ did, but the anger she still felt toward herself at running away from Will was fresh. This was confusing, but she needed something to stop the trembles that ran down her spine.   
After a few moments, the door opened. The new clerk from Hannibal’s tailor stood over the threshold, a cool blue beer can still clenched in his fist and a confused expression on his face. Clearly he was not expecting any visitors at this late of an hour. 

“Can I help you?” 

_Rude, as always._ Hannibal thought, but kept his composure. This was just another reason to continue. 

“Um, hi, yes. I was wondering if I could use your phone? I got a flat tire, and I can’t call my car service because my phone is dead.” Hannibal said in the softest voice he could muster. Not quite Mischa’s, but close. She would not allow him to use her voice. She would not be an accomplice to this. 

The man eyed Hannibal skeptically. Hannibal smiled and held up his phone, pressing the button on the top to show that it was, in fact, dead. At this, the man stepped aside and ushered him in. 

“Thank you so much.” Hannibal said as the door closed behind the pair of them. “This will only take but a minute.” 

The man turned back to Hannibal, considerably alarmed at his abrupt change in voice. But before he could do anything about it, Hannibal had sprung on him and pinned him back against the wood of the closed door. 

He tightened his hands around this man’s throat, watching his pupils blow wide open. They were black and gaping as he tried to breathe, he stuttered forth one sentence before falling unconscious. “It’s you.” 

Hannibal knew now that he had been recognized, and it was a good thing he had come with the intent to kill, because if he had not he definitely would need to now. He silently marveled at the fact that this man did not put together who he was sooner, even though he was wearing the dress that he had given Hannibal only a few days prior. 

_Not terribly observant._ Hannibal thought as he dragged the body down the entrance hallway. This man was heavier than he looked, and it was difficult to gain leverage in the dress and shoes he was still wearing. He thought for a moment about removing them, but quickly disposed of that thought. Besides, the blood this man was going to spill would look lovely splattered over the delicate lace pattern of the dress.

Not knowing the layout of the house, Hannibal floundered for a brief moment. He was looking for the basement, somewhere that had minimal windows and walls that were better soundproofed. After opening a few closets and one bathroom, he finally opened a door to a staircase that led into a cool darkness that smelled slightly of mold. 

Bracing himself both physically and mentally, Hannibal gathered the unconscious man into his arms and cradled him against the scoop neck of the dress. As he walked down the basement stairs, quietly thankful that Mischa had forgone the heels tonight, he watched the small necklace fastened around Mischa’s neck bump softly against the crown of this man’s head. But even surrounded in such soft loveliness, he was still the ugliest thing Hannibal thought he had ever seen and he was sure Mischa silently agreed. 

Once completely in the basement, Hannibal turned on a light switch with the sharp edge of his elbow, casting his surroundings in a faintly yellow glow. It wasn’t exactly well-lit, but it was better than complete darkness. Almost too conveniently, there was a table laden with folded laundry in the middle of the small basement. Hannibal gently placed the man down on his back before pushing the clothes off his makeshift working surface. 

Hannibal took a few short moments to examine his knife before putting it to use. He knew the man laying prone before him would not be unconscious much longer, and it would prove beneficial to have him incapacitated before he woke since Hannibal had none of his usual provisions with him this evening. No chemicals, no ropes, no selection of knives, not even one syringe. 

Still, he could not let the moment he had go to waste. He knew what he had to do, and he was going to enjoy doing it. Though he did not have a bonesaw, and cracking ribs was a messy endeavor, he placed a cut starting below the neckline and plunging down in a perfectly straight line through the belly button. The man stirred, just as Hannibal had thought he would. He placed one hand over his mouth and pressed down as he created another cut across the collarbones, slicing the skin as evenly and perfectly as freshly kneaded dough. 

The man stilled, only having enough in him to thrash one time. Hannibal knew he wasn’t dead, no not yet, but that was alright. This man could stay alive to feel him poking and prodding inside, maybe then he would realize the way his unfeeling words had seared through the cracks in Hannibal’s security and scorched his insides.   
Wrist deep in the man’s abdomen, blood staining his skin red, Hannibal closed his eyes and breathed in the metallic scent that lingered in the air. He kept his eyes closed and held his breath for a moment, cherishing the true calm he felt spreading through his body. He imagined the way he would string this man up, maybe place him in an enticing tableaux in his very living room, blinds open for the neighborhood to see. He exhaled and all of the irrational anger he had been harboring earlier that evening was expelled from his lungs. Hannibal moved his hands inside the torso, just a bit, before opening his eyes once more. 

And to his surprise, he was no longer alone in the room. Across from him, standing on the other side of the table, he saw Mischa. Exactly as he imagined her, as she existed within his own head. She looked on with curious eyes, her head cocked slightly. 

“Hannibal, stop. Let me help.” She reached her hand out for Hannibal’s knife, tentative but sure he would give it to her. And Hannibal did not hesitate. 

The body between them on the table, Mischa slid the knife down the soft and supple skin of the inside of the man’s arm. She tested the blade against the spongy resistance she was met with. The glint in her eye as she looked up from watching the blood fall matched the glint in the blade and Hannibal found himself unable to do anything but watch her move.

Her movements were graceful, like everything she did was a dance. 

Even as she spoke to him, her voice seemed to float down around him. “Hannibal, you can’t leave this body on display. Will is too clever, and he will catch you eventually, and that will keep Will away from _me_.” Hannibal’s nose wrinkled at the emphasis she placed on the word. 

“Me.” She repeated, staring down at the expanse of creamy flesh waiting before her. “I know what I’m doing, how to keep this from looking like the Ripper’s doing. I’ve watched you long enough.” 

The man, still impossibly clinging to the last dregs of life, whimpered pitifully. Mischa turned her hard eyes on him and leaned over him, unblinkingly severing his tongue and pulling it from his mouth. Like a vain god singing precious riches into gentle flesh, Mischa whispered in his ear, something that Hannibal did not hear. 

The man’s eyes grew wide and he tried to squirm away, but it was evident that each movement brought pain. Mischa brought the knife down through the open mess of the blood and innards, stopping at the waistband of his jeans. Hannibal watched the man tremble as Mischa slipped the blade down and up through the buttons, popping them off and scattering them across the floor. 

The man thrashed once more, a muffled tongueless screech crawling up and out of his throat as Mischa reached down with fingers too slender, too long. She held this man’s most prized possession in her hands and regarded it with curiosity for the briefest of seconds before bringing the knife slicing down through it. The man stilled on the table almost immediately, twitching slightly as blood spurted from between his legs.

“If only it were really this easy.” Mischa said, looking pointedly at Hannibal, tossing the detached clump of flesh to the floor. 

Mischa held the knife up in front of her face for a moment, and Hannibal was afraid of what she was planning to do next as he watched the sparse light of the basement glint off the silver edge. Dropping red from the tip, down onto the handle, but the flat of the blade was unobscured. Hannibal watched as a slender hand reached down into the purse that still was slung around her shoulders and pulled out a small tube of something. It was uncapped quickly and Hannibal realized what it was she had gotten from her bag. 

As Mischa reapplied her lipstick, using the blade of Hannibal’s knife to see her reflection, Hannibal watched as both secret pieces of himself converged into one.

**Author's Note:**

> If there are any tags that you feel I should add as this fic progresses, please do not hesitate to let me know.


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